Last Brother's Valediction
by D.M.P
Summary: Post-OotP. SPOILERS Lupin contemplates death and rationalises it in the only way he can.


**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Last Brother's Valediction

By D.M.P.

            I tend to sort out emotions, to stack them in little piles of priority.  Feelings for others.  Sub-catagories.  This much for Harry.  For Molly and the Weasleys.  For the Order.  For Dumbledore.  For Lily and James.

            For Sirius.

            As if I was meting out portions of my heart.

            Or sorting laundry.

            Feelings for myself is a meagre pile.  I don't know whether that was the consequence of dealing with my illness for so long, or whether it's part of my nature.   

            Emotions are fleeting.  They change, like visitors at a cheap motel: hour by hour, moment by moment.  So why must one depend on them to regulate one's life?  Instead, place them in a separate bin from the rest of your body and close the lid.  Oh, I love and want to be loved, I can hate as much as the world hates me.  But in the long run, what do our little needs and rages total up to in the end?

            One taunting man.

            _"Come on, you can do better than that!" _

            You were always one to tempt Death, Sirius.

            You and your damn emotions.

            They carried you too far.  Past an archway of stone from where you could never return.

            It was your restlessness that made you unhappy.  The hatred stemmed from your home, where memories haunted you like a ghost.  Inadequacy from Snape's insults made you feel embittered and useless.  Most of all, it was your love – such a deep, all-consuming emotion that can be – which drove you to come with us to save Harry and the other children.

            I should be disgusted by you.  I should hate that idiotic way you held your heart out on your sleeve, just waiting to be punched or kicked or stabbed.  I should be enraged by everything you stand for because that was what got you killed.

            But as I sit here, staring into the fireplace, I know I won't.  I can't.

            How could I hate you for the quality that I admired and endeared myself to so much?

            Sometimes, I fear for Harry.  We keep in touch; Arabella smuggles letters back and forth between Privet Drive and London.  Weeks pass at a time between each one, and that is most likely because Mundungus misplaces them half the time when she gives him Harry's to relay to me.  I read his letters, which are always short and matter-of-fact, and my feelings reserved for Harry start to worry.  

            _Remus,_

_            How are you? Everything is going okay.  I got a call from Ron this morning, and he finally figured out not to shout over the receiver.  Hedwig still gets wing pains sometimes, especially before it rains.  During this afternoon it showered, and so she's been pretty cranky all day. _

_            Everyone's been treating me all right.  Uncle Vernon's still avoiding me.  Most of the time he's doing lawn work, but the hosepipe ban is still up and so he's just out there rolling over the withering lawn with a grass-cutter.  __Dudley__ never seems to be home now, either.  I guess the summer "teatime" sessions had been extended from __noon__ to eleven.  Aunt Petunia's becoming better, though, since she thinks that a bunch of wizard henchmen could ram down her door any day now.  In fact, today she even offered me some toast at the breakfast table, although it was pretty burnt.  _

_            Hope you're well too.  Write back soon._

- _Harry_

            He feels obligated to write letters to me every so often.  I don't know exactly why.  Perhaps it's because the Order had threatened Lily's family to ensure Harry wouldn't go through any more difficulties at home.  Or maybe it's because he feels that I need the letters most.

            Every time he writes, though, I get the sickening thought that he is doing exactly what I am doing.  Dispensing niceties to comfort others, but locking up himself.  Dumbledore assures me that this isn't true, but I'm unsure.  Sometimes I'm afraid that Harry is losing his emotions too.  That he is starting to prioritise them.  Bundling them up in a drawer and sliding it shut.  

            I write letters back of course.  

            _Harry,_

_            I'm doing fine.  Everyone is doing well under the circumstances.  Because of Mundungus's questionable influences, Kingsley has developed a taste for poker now.  A game starts up every evening with whoever is in the House at the moment.  Whenever Kingsley's there, however, we always have a game.  He's surprisingly getting better at it too, and in a couple more months he'll be able to buy his gold watch back from Mundungus._

_            Mad-Eye sat in for a game once, but quit in a fury when he accused Mundungus of hiding cards up his sleeves.  He denied that, but Mad-Eye only growled and muttered, "The eye never lies," before leaping across the table and jerking at Mundungus's robes.  Mind you, things would have not escalated to such violence if Mad-Eye had not just lost 254 Galleons at the time._

_            Needless to say, Mundungus is currently banned from the Order's poker table for life._

_            In other news, Tonks is trying out a new hairstyle: that is, no hair at all.  After spending one sunny afternoon de-gnoming the garden, her head is now a lovely cherry colour.  The worst part is that she can't transform any hair at all until her scalp's healed over.  Mrs. Weasley commented that that was what you get if you go about trying to look New Age._

_            Other than that, things have been pretty quiet here.  Still, keep us informed and take care._

- _Remus_

            We never talk about our emotions in the letters.  To do so would probably ruin the whole correspondence.

            But I hope, as desperately as I dare to, that Harry has an outlet for him.  Someone to really talk to.  If not to me.

            Times are more dangerous than ever, and I know that I should not be dwelling over my petty concerns.  Dumbledore is still dealing with the goblins, though we're close in winning them over.  Our chances for success would probably be better if we could promise them rights.  I hate making promises that I can't keep, though, and so does Dumbledore.

            Broken promises hurt.  They're like small betrayals, chiselling at one's confidence in others bit by bit.

            Promises are only as strong as the people who give them after all.  

            Remember that promise we had all made years ago?  Under the beech tree by the lake.  You, James, Peter, and I.   The night after our first successful full moon romp, when you and James and Peter had managed to change into Animagi.  I was still weak from the transformation, but I had sneaked out of the hospital ward to join you.   You had said it was important that I come.

            There, under that tree and a safer moon, we had made a promise.  To always be together.  To always remain friends.  We had cut our palms that night and shaken hands four-ways.

            The night we became brothers.

            But now one brother betrayed another.  Broken his promise.

            And, in the end, you couldn't keep your promise, either, could you?

            Because you were taunting Death.

            With your heart on your sleeve.

            Oh.

            God.

            I apologise.

            This is wrong.  This is all wrong.

            What's wrong?

            Death? 

            Emotion? 

            War?

            Voldemort thinks death is wrong.

            I think emotion is wrong.

            And pretty much everyone in both the wizard and magical world can agree that war is the greatest wrong of all.

            My portion of emotion is growing too much.  It's not right, not sure, not beneficial to do this.

            This.  Is.  Pointless.

            Just like war is pointless.

            Just like your death was pointless.

            Yes, that is what I want to blame at the moment.  Because War is a hunkering, faceless being, a spoiled and unsatisfied monster that contains no reason.  Or feeling.  

            But I know that I can't even blame that properly, because war _does have a face.  _

            It has Voldemort's red glowing eyes and Dumbledore's crooked nose.  It has Malfoy's pointed chin and the Weasley flaming hair.  It has my cold denial and your hot temper.

            War is an entity that is defined by the people who make it.    So I cannot even cast my judgement against that.

            He who is without sin shall cast the first stone.

            I toss my stone away, vile War.  And in return, a thousand boulders shall drop from the sky.

            But if there is anything for me left, it is another promise.

            Yes, I am going to make a promise.  

            And yes, I know that a promise is only as strong as the person who gives it.

            I, Remus Jacob Lupin promise to fight.

            I shall not waste my time in grief when I know how unbeneficial it would be to our cause.

            For in exchange for every tear I refuse to shed comes a memory that brings laughter.  Every pang of sorrow shall be met with a beam of hope.  

            You shall join James and Lily in my resolve, Sirius.

            I won't mourn your death anymore.

            I will celebrate your life.  Their lives.

            In the only way the last brother can.

            So, are you listening, Sirius, beyond the darkened veil?  Of course you are, and you're smiling too.

            Because you're done with taunting Death.

            And now you're teaching it how to waltz.  


End file.
